A Bargain in the shadow

The workshop thrived in its own quiet symphony—threads unraveling in careful pulls, fabric shifting under deft fingertips, muted conversations weaving into the hum of industrious focus. Abel and Thomas strode through the space, their steps measured, their words an undercurrent to the artistry unfolding around them.

“I was meaning to ask, sir,” Thomas ventured after a pause, tilting his head toward Abel. “Why did you tell them you’re just an employee?”

Abel exhaled, his gaze flicking across the room’s steady rhythm. “I don’t want to burden them,” he admitted. “If they knew who I was—especially with you here to shut everything down—they’d work under a shadow, expecting the worst. I’d rather let them carry on as they are, without me looming over them.”

Thomas absorbed the response, his expression neutral though his silence spoke of quiet disagreement. He didn’t see the point of Abel’s secrecy, but he let the matter rest, nodding in acceptance.

Yet as their conversation drifted, so did Abel’s attention—not to the layers of cloth being cut and stitched, not to the dyes blending into rich patterns—but to Eda. The way she moved had an unspoken certainty, not forced, not deliberate, but instinctive. She worked like someone who had lived within the pulse of the workshop long enough to embody its rhythm without thought.

Thomas followed Abel’s gaze, observing without comment. He had spent enough time beside him to recognize distraction when it surfaced.

...****************...

Thomas's gaze lingered on Abel, catching the subtle pull of distraction that kept his focus elsewhere. But before he could comment, his phone rang. A familiar name flashed across the screen—Mrs. Rosa. With a quiet sigh, he excused himself, stepping aside to take the call.

The Rosaenne & Family Textile empire was hers—a legacy draped in prestige, built on meticulous craftsmanship and unwavering discipline. The Cordia branch, where Eda and her father worked, was only one piece of it.

Mrs. Rosa had three children: Dave, the eldest, Abel, the middle son, and Athea, the youngest—their only daughter. The family existed within an unspoken but deeply felt dysfunction. Mr. Atolla and Mrs. Rosa had spent years communicating through silence, a cold and practiced detachment that neither acknowledged nor challenged. It shaped the household into a careful performance—each person moving with the quiet awareness not to disturb the brittle balance.

Dave, now married to Vera—a striking model he met while she was promoting Mrs. Rosa’s designs—had assumed control over most business operations. Abel, returning only months ago after six years abroad, had been absent long enough for roles to shift in his absence. And though Dave had settled into the weight of responsibility, their mother had no intention of letting Abel remain uninvolved.

Athea was the most difficult to manage. She bore sharp edges, a force of contradiction that did not bend easily. She had never seen eye to eye with her mother, gravitating instead toward their father, despite his distant nature. Mrs. Rosa’s strict upbringing, rooted in an aristocratic world that dictated every movement with precision, had bled into their household. They did not simply live together; they existed within a constructed framework—a lingering echo of monarchy, upheld by formality, wealth, and the silent presence of maids who kept their world pristine.

...****************...

Thomas picked up the phone. Mrs. Rosa’s assistant was on the other end, his tone sharp and direct.

“Thomas, have you arrived?”

“Yes, sir,” Thomas responded, adjusting his posture as he spoke. “We’ve looked around. We haven’t informed the manager about the branch closing yet—Abel wants to hold off until tomorrow. But the paperwork is finalized.”

The assistant didn’t acknowledge his update. No approval, no acknowledgment—just a dismissal as he pressed forward.

“I have another assignment for you. The last maid you brought in left this morning—in tears. Said she couldn’t handle Athea.” His voice held no sympathy, only cold efficiency. “Find someone to replace her on your way there. Someone of age, but not too old. Someone who can actually get along with Athea—she isn’t easy to deal with.”

Thomas exhaled, his grip tightening around the phone. The request was routine, yet his conscience stirred. He tried to recall every maid that had passed through the Rosa household—each one leaving exhausted, some broken. How many times had this cycle repeated? And now, here he was, expected to send another girl into the fire.

As his thoughts churned, the call ended. He looked up, expecting to see Abel where he had left him. But Abel was gone.

...****************...

The diner was a patchwork of moments—a place where breakfast, lunch, and dinner blurred into one continuous rhythm, and where alcohol flowed freely after sundown. Smooth classical melodies hummed in the background, weaving through the chatter and clinking glasses. In one corner, a group of men with thick accents—clearly from the countryside—laughed loudly, their voices rising above the music. Across the room, a couple leaned close, their conversation hushed, the woman’s laughter punctuating the air as the man’s hand slid discreetly onto her thigh. Near the bar, a drunk man barked at the server, demanding another round, his words slurred and sharp.

The door swung open, and Thomas stepped inside. His tailored coat and deliberate stride marked him as an outsider, a man not from these parts. He carried the weight of his thoughts—still wrestling with the moral dilemma of sending another woman into the chaos of the Rosa household. With a subtle gesture, he signaled for a drink. The server, a woman with years of experience etched into her movements, understood immediately. She didn’t need words to interpret the language of his hand; she had mastered the art of reading customers, no matter where they came from.

As she approached with his drink, her demeanor shifted. She straightened her posture, her steps gaining a deliberate elegance. “You don’t look like you’re from around here,” she remarked, her tone light but curious.

Thomas met her gaze, his lips curving into a faint smile. “What gave it away?”

“Well,” she said, setting the bottle down and popping the cap with ease, “men in Cordia don’t dress like you.”

He chuckled softly, taking the bottle and draining it in one long, unbroken pull. When he handed it back, her eyes widened, impressed. “Man, you sure are thirsty. Another one coming right up.”

She turned to fetch his next drink, but Thomas’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before drifting across the room. He took in the scene—the countryside men’s boisterous laughter, the couple’s quiet intimacy, the drunk man’s escalating frustration. “I ordered another round!” the man shouted, his tone sharp and impatient.

The server rolled her eyes as she approached him. “You’ve had enough, Rand. Go home. Your sister won’t let you in smelling like that, and there are children there, for God’s sake.”

Rand cursed under his breath, his words slurred, his frustration barely earning the server’s attention. She had long learned which patrons were worth her time and which were best left ignored. He was the latter.

Still, his irritation lingered, and after draining the remnants of his drink, he turned his unsteady gaze to the newcomer—Thomas.

With an unbalanced gait, Rand approached, his posture betraying the alcohol that weighed him down. “So, you’re one of those city folks,” he said, his voice thick with the remnants of his last round. “What brought you here?”

Thomas barely spared him a glance. “I’m bothered,” he muttered, making it clear he had no interest in conversation. But Rand was not the type to respect boundaries—he pulled out a chair and sat without invitation, his presence imposing itself with stubborn ease.

“You know who I am?” Rand pressed, trying to establish a connection. “I’m the manager’s wife’s brother. We’re in-laws.”

Thomas finally gave him a fraction of attention, tilting his head slightly in interest. “You don’t say.”

Rand grinned, seeing an opening. “Yeah, I’m his right hand.” He leaned forward, sensing the shift. “So what are you here for?”

Thomas kept his response vague. “Looking around.” He let the words linger, offering just enough to bait Rand’s curiosity.

The conversation took on a heavier tone as Rand launched into his own stories, his speech laced with the kind of bravado that came naturally with alcohol. He gestured at the server, wordlessly signaling for another drink. Without hesitation, she acknowledged the request, bringing another round.

With the familiarity of drink warming his veins, Rand settled comfortably. The tension in his shoulders eased, his manner shifting into that of a man who, despite his earlier frustration, now found solace in his audience.

And between the exchange, amid the laughter and the rising intensity of their discussion, Thomas—almost offhandedly—mentioned his real reason for being here.

“I’m looking for a young girl. Someone willing to work in the Rosa household.”

The words landed, but what ripple would they cause?

Rand stilled for a moment, the words settling in his mind, triggering something almost too convenient. He thought of his sister—the way she never hid her resentment, how she lamented having Eda in the house, how she wanted her gone.

Slowly, a smirk stretched at the corner of his lips. He looked at Thomas, a sudden knowing glint in his drunk, half-lidded eyes.

“You came to the right guy for this,” Rand murmured, leaning back with satisfaction. “I have just the person in mind.”

Thomas observed him carefully now, his disinterest fading into quiet calculation. He had seen men like Rand before—opportunists, the kind who thrived when a situation presented itself with personal gain. But instead of dismissing him outright, he let the conversation unfold naturally.

Their interests aligned, however unintentionally. Thomas needed someone willing to take up the position. Rand needed a way to rid his sister of her burden—Eda.

The atmosphere between them shifted, no longer the careless banter of a drunk man looking for attention but a quiet, mutual understanding between two men whose interests converged, even if for different reasons.

Rand gestured toward the server again, ordering another round with the comfort of someone who knew he had something of value to offer.

Thomas took a slow breath, weighing the unfolding situation in his mind.

Was this an opportunity? Or was it another fire he was about to fuel?

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